Gwen Ford - Texas Miracle

“But I would like to come in.” He slid out of his seat, worrying a bit about the appropriateness of what he was doing, but he quickly dismissed those thoughts. There was nothing wrong with being friendly.

She used her key to go in a side door, and they took their coats off and hung them on hooks. A small lamp illuminated the table by the doorway where she laid her keys. She flipped a switch to turn on another light and Mac followed her into a tiny kitchen. White cabinets framed a white stove, from which she grabbed a red teapot. She filled it with water and returned it to the stove, clicking the gas burner till it ignited. She motioned for him to sit down at a round ice-cream shop table with an oak top in the corner of the room. Then she brought two mugs and an assortment of teas to the table and sat down in the chair opposite him.

“Which one of these is best?” he asked, turning the teas and reading labels.

“I like the chai or the ginger peach. But the peppermint is also nice.”

Mac unwrapped a peppermint tea bag from its package and hung it over the side of his mug. When the kettle whistled, Jacqueline brought it and filled his first, then poured her own mug full of chai. She giggled.

He frowned. “What? What is it?”

“You don’t look very cozy in that chair.”

He smiled. His six-foot-four frame made the set seem like doll furniture.

She rose. “Come on. Let’s go in here where it’s more comfortable.”

Jacqueline led Mac out of the kitchen and down a short, narrow hall into the living room. She sat down on a horribly patterned sofa and he took the mismatched chair adjacent to it, putting his feet up on the pea green–colored ottoman. “That’s something nice,” he commented, settling in. The chair was surprisingly comfortable.

She laughed and the sound was like music. “Nothing but the best Kilgore Goodwill store had to offer.”

“I like it. The whole room is—creative.” Mac looked around, taking in the macrame design on the wall, orange shag rug and the beat-up coffee table where a wooden bowl full of pecans with a silver nutcracker sat. He tried to suppress thoughts of who the previous owners of this collection could have been, and what hygienic habits they might have been lacking. Breathe. He took a sip of his tea.

Jacqueline eased off her heels and put her feet on the table, wriggling her toes inside her gray stockings. “It was kind of you to follow me home.” Her eyes sparkled with warmth as she peered at him over her tea mug.

“It was kind of you to invite me in.” For some reason, Mac wasn’t bothered by her feet, even though he had a foot aversion. At least with other people’s feet.

“Are you cold?”

“A bit. Is it hard to keep this little old house warm?” Mac looked around for a thermostat.

“Check this out.” Jacqueline set down her tea and walked across the tiny room to the fireplace. She picked up a brass key off the mantel, fit it into a square on the hearth and turned it. Then she lit a match and tossed it into the firebox. Poof! A fire blazed, but there was no wood.

“Whoa! That’s old-school!”

“This whole house is old-school. I kind of love it.” Jacqueline sat back down on the couch, crossing one of her legs under her and picking up her tea again.

“How did you end up renting it? The King of Kilgore?”

“No, believe it or not. I found it on a website. It’s owned by the Methodist church. They rented it to me for three months.”

“That’s all?” Mac knew he sounded as disappointed as he felt.

“I think I’ll have the option to renew.”

“Good.”

“You may not want me on your payroll longer than that.”

“Are you kidding?”

Jacqueline grinned. Mac thought he detected a note of wistfulness when she said, “I told you from the beginning I wasn’t planning to stay.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t try to change your mind.” He set down his mug.

They both stared at the fire for a long moment. To Mac, a flame was mesmerizing.

“Well.” Jacqueline finally broke the silence.

“That’s a deep subject.” Mac straightened his glasses. “My dad used to say that.”

“Tell me about him.”

Mac took a deep breath. He never talked about his parents, didn’t know where to begin. “He was a doctor. A good guy.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Yes. Sometimes. All of the time, if I let myself.”

“Are you like him?” Jacqueline’s voice was breathy, soft.

“I think I’m the most like him of all of my brothers, except maybe Cullen.”

“The professor?”

“Yes. We’re both more studious, and that’s like my dad. But Cullen’s into history. My dad was very scientific, meticulous, also loved numbers.”

“That’s like you.” She grinned.

“Yes. We both need—or he needed—certainty. That’s how he died, you know. Trying to find Pap’s grave. I still want to find it, but I don’t know if I ever will.”

“I remember the plane crash. That must have been so impossibly difficult, losing both of your parents.”

Mac nodded. There were no words.

“I envy you, you know.”

Jacqueline’s comment seemed so strange, he searched her face for meaning. Surely he misunderstood what she’d said.

“Roots.” She put down her mug and reached for the bowl of pecans. Bypassing the nutcracker, she took two pecans in her palm and squeezed them together, cracking them both.

“Man, you must have a grip of steel,” Mac said with admiration.

She picked the pecans out of their shells, depositing the remains in her empty tea mug, and offered one to Mac. When their hands touched, Mac felt an electric shock. He took the pecan. “Thanks.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Mac. I know you’ve suffered horrible losses that no one would envy. And I’m truly sorry.” Her eyes burned with intensity. “But what I envy is how grounded you are—your roots. You know where you belong.”

“It’s funny, but I’ve never considered that as a big deal. It’s just who I am.”

“It is a big deal. It’s something a lot of people don’t have.”

“But do you want to be grounded, Jacqueline? Really? To put down roots somewhere? I don’t want to talk myself out of a good assistant, but it seems like that kind of life might be too boring for you. Too—limiting.”

Jacqueline sighed. “My parents definitely raised me to think so. But I don’t know. My maternal grandmother—her name is Violet—believes the opposite. I never saw her much growing up because my mother broke with her when she met my father. But the few times I’ve seen her are the closest things I have to memories of a home.”

“Where does she live?”

“Iowa. In the middle of a cornfield.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I need to go see her sometime while I’m in the country. It’s been years.”

“Why so long?”

“It was up to my parents to take me when I was a kid, and that didn’t happen much. Then in college I didn’t really have the means. But we wrote letters.”

“I see.” Mac couldn’t fathom it. He’d always had the means, just no living grandparent to go visit.

As if reading his thoughts, Jacqueline asked, “Are any of your other grandparents still living?”

“No. They’re all gone—all passed before my parents.”

Jacqueline nodded sympathetically, her hair falling forward over her shoulder like a dark silk curtain. Mac suddenly had the urge to reach out and touch the strands. But instead, he rose. “I guess I better get going.” He wanted to stay with every fiber of his being. But the reasons he should go were more certain than his feelings: Jacqueline was in his life for only the short-term. She was like some exotic bird of paradise, and nothing he was or could do would ever be enough to keep her in Kilgore. So he’d best not get too close before she flew away.